


Christmas Is Relative

by renn



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aunt Amy declares that Christmas won't darken her penthouse door. Napoleon is willing to live with the decree. But... is Illya?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Is Relative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkkitty/gifts).



“What I find amazing,” Illya Kuryakin confessed one chilly December morning, as he and his partner sat huddled in their U.N.C.L.E.-issued sedan, keeping an eye on the bright red door of a townhouse in the middle of a nondescript row of townhouses on a nondescript side street in the middle of New Jersey, “is how you Americans obsess over the end-of-the-year holidays.”

Napoleon Solo, who really needed at least one more cup of coffee before being able to tolerate the Russian’s stake-out ramblings, groaned. “I’m really not up to one of your lectures on how the Russians are so superior when it comes to celebrating.”

“No lecture, Napoleon, just observation.” He pulled out the large thermos of coffee, sloshing it around to determine how much was left. “Here, have the dregs, it will make you feel better. “ He passed the thermos to his partner, waiting patiently for Solo to refill his mug before continuing. “Here in America, you make it a sport of seeing who can tolerate his or her relatives the best-- although every one of you seem to be related to the most boorish collection of humanity ever assembled.”

“Oh, and every one of your relatives are open-minded, tolerant, and polite to boot.”

“We Russians are a rude lot. We also tend to drink so much vodka at family gatherings that we completely skip over the confrontational part of the gathering and go straight into swearing fealty beyond the grave.”

“Saves some time there, yes.”

“Naturally, with economic conditions being what they are, most families don’t have a choice in what food to offer, so there’s none of this squabbling over whose disgusting green bean casserole reigns supreme. Really? Green bean casserole? It’s an exercise in how many obnoxious ingredients can be combined into one dish-- and how much one can eat of it.”

“Do you object to the green beans?”

“I object to the cream of mushroom soup. And the ‘french-fried’ onions. For a start.”

“Nothing requiring you to eat it, my friend.”

“One must be polite, Napoleon.”

Solo chuckled, sipped his coffee, and contemplated his partner’s profile. He suspected Illya was up to something, but what and why, he had no idea. “Is there green bean casserole in your future?”

“I hope not. Miss Dancer has reliably assured me that her family is too _haute ton_ for something so middle-class. Not that I completely understand the distinctions in American society, of course. Much too subtle compared to, say Britain or Japan. And, truthfully, the highest classed Americans pale compared to their European counterparts.”

Solo raised an eyebrow. “April’s family? What’s that about?”

Kuryakin shrugged. “Someone’s required to play her boyfriend. She’s been using her imaginary boyfriend to keep the peace about her extended absences from family gatherings, and now apparently she has to actually produce one or there will be...trouble.”

“Well, why doesn’t Mark do it? He’s her partner and all.”

“Mark has to fulfill some requirements of his new title, requiring him to spend the season in England. And since you were already committed to two meals with your aunt, she turned to me.”

“One meal.”

“Sorry?”

“Aunt Amy and I are only having one meal together. She claimed that two were too many given her health.”

The red townhouse door opened, cutting off further conversation. In the excitement of capturing their quarry-- the rushing, the shooting, the dodging, the tackling, the returning of covering fire, the paperwork processing afterwards-- Illya completely forgot about following up on what his partner had said.

At least until the phone call several days later.

He and Napoleon had barricaded themselves in the latter’s office, frantically rushing to wrap-up their paperwork before the wrath of Waverly hit them once again. (It was actually the disappearance of most of the secretarial pool due to the holidays that had them rushing, but it all boiled down to the same disappointed glare from the old man in the end.) Solo had just pushed aside a completed pile of personnel reports when his phone rang. He answered promptly, having a brief conversation filled with a quantity of “uh huh” and “I see,” which Kuryakin mostly turned out until his partner wrapped up with, “Well, keep me advised. I’ll drop in this evening to see her. Thanks again for all your help, Mrs. Martinez.” Solo hung up with a sigh.

Kuryakin recognized the name. “Something up with your aunt?”

His partner shrugged. “Ah, now she’s claiming she doesn’t want to do anything about Christmas at all.”

“As in...?”

“No tree, no dinners, no nothing. She claims it’s pointless, as she’s had enough Christmases for a lifetime, and it’s not like she’s going to remember this one for very long. And she’s serious about it, because she made Mrs. Martinez deliver the bad news for her.”

“Ah, it’s one of her more lucid days, I gather.”

“Yep. The more lucid she is, the more cranky she gets.”

Kuryakin nodded sympathetically. “You can hardly blame her.”

“I don’t blame her. I find myself wishing she wasn’t so lucid so often, that’s all. It’s so frustrating.”

“For her or for you?”

“Yes.” Napoleon gave his partner a hard glare, a sure sign the topic had closed. “Now, where are you on the Felspar Affair wrap-up?”

“Just finished.” The Russian slid the pile of papers in front of him to his right and grabbed a new stack to work on.

They worked in customary silence the rest of the afternoon. Aunt Amy’s decree never really left Solo’s mind, though, and he found himself much too distracted by it. Eventually he realized that he would get no further work done until he talked with her himself. Checking his watch, he noted it was after 4 p.m. “Ah... that’s it for me today,” he announced.

“A little early, don’t you think?” his partner commented, not looking up from his paperwork notations.

“Yeah, well, I want to get to Auntie Crank’s before her dinner hour-- and she eats early.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Besides, if she’s cancelling Christmas on me, the least she can do is offer me some of her 30-year-old port to make up for it. See you tomorrow, Illya.” He grabbed his coat and, nodding at the Russian, left his office.

Kuryakin paused his paperwork processing a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. Aunt Amy’s decision seemed to really bother his partner. He hoped that Solo could persuade his aunt to celebrate at least a little bit. In the meantime, though, Kuryakin had more reports to write up....

*****  
Solo put his “game face” on the moment he stepped out of the taxi. He nodded and smiled at the doorman as he entered his aunt’s building, and greeted her neighbors cordially as he entered and they exited the elevator. He reminded himself to stay upbeat no matter what as he knocked on his aunt’s door.

Mrs. Martinez-- a squat, friendly woman of indeterminate years with greying hair in a bun, answered the knock. “Oh, Mr. Napoleon, do come in!” She insisted on taking his coat, waving him into the living are as she hung it up. “Go sit with Miss Amy. I’ll bring you a glass of something in a moment.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Martinez.” Solo brushed some imaginary lint off his suit jacket, straightened his shoulders, and breezed into the living room. His aunt sat in her customary spot on her white leather barcalounger, gazing out at the breathtaking Manhattan skyline with a glass of burgandy and a small plate of cheese and crackers to keep her company. “Good evening, Auntie,” Napoleon said, settling into _his_ customary spot on the white leather sofa catty-corner from his relative. (The furniture rightly seemed incongruous to his aunt’s age; it was her redecorating the penthouse on a whim in the moddest of modern that gave them both the first clue to her developing dementia.)

“Ah, Napoleon, I figured you would be around. Brie?” She waved a hand over the snack plate.

“No, thanks.”

“Skyline’s beautiful tonight.”

“Yes, indeed.” He accepted a glass of single-malt scotch from Mrs. Martinez, then waited until she had returned to the kitchen before asking, “So, what’s this about no Christmas, Auntie?”

“Oh, Napoleon, what’s the point? It puts too many people out of sorts. I’ve had enough Christmases in one lifetime that not having one this year won’t matter. Especially since, even if I stay lucid, I won’t remember it. At my advanced age, one must conserve resources.”

“We could keep things low-key, Auntie. We wouldn’t have even go out. I could bring in Chinese from Wong Foo’s.... you know you love their egg foo yung, and their potstickers.”

Aunt Amy nodded, looking wistful for a moment. Sighing, she gave her nephew a small, fond smile. “We could have Wong Foo’s any evening, Napoleon-- doesn’t have to be Christmas. Besides, you surely have better things to do on Christmas than to spend the day with your batty old aunt.”

“Oh, Auntie, I can’t think of anything better than--”

“Don’t do it too brown, young man. I am sure you’ve had several offers to spend some time under the mistletoe and in front of a fire with a beautiful young lady. Surely your time would be better spent in pursuit of a future wife.”

“But at Christmas? Really, I’d rather--”

Aunt Amy gave him another fond smile. “I appreciate your loyalty, Napoleon. But, really, time for you to move forward. All I’m good for is the past.”

“But--”

“Hush!”

“Auntie--!”

“I said ‘hush’!” They glared at each other a moment; Napoleon finally sighed exasperatedly and looked away. Amy nodded approval. “You’ll see I’m right, Napoleon-- after this nasty holiday season passes, of course. Now, will you stay for dinner?”

Solo shook his head. “I don’t think so-- I apparently have last-minute holiday plans to make.” He left his scotch half-drunk on the side table as he stood, leaning over his aunt to give her a dutiful kiss on the cheek. He reclaimed his coat quietly, calling out, “Bye-bye, Auntie,” as he opened the penthouse door.

“Don’t come back until after New Year’s!” Amy called after him.

Napoleon sighed. If Aunt Amy wanted him to spend Christmas without her, then he would spend Christmas without her. Whatever made his favoite aunt (and only living relative) happy made him happy. Even if he didn’t actually like it.

****************

The following morning, Illya Kuryakin arrived at headquarters a little early, hoping to catch his partner before they both became too involved in the tasks of the day. Napoleon hadn’t arrived yet, so he popped over to the labs and dove into the latest mysteries Section VIII were investigating. He didn’t come up for air until early evening. Most everyone else who could leave for the day had; Christmas Eve was nearly upon them. As he sauntered back to his office to reclaim his suit jacket and outerwear, April’s voice stopped him. “Mr. Kuryakin! There you are!”

“Have you been looking for me?” he asked politely, hovering in the doorway of his office so that his fellow agent could catch up.

“On and off all day.”

“Did you not think to check in the lab?”

“I did several times. You were wrapped up in that one project with Beauchamps and Norville and I didn’t want to interrupt, not when it wasn’t about work.”

“Ah, you want to talk about Christmas Day arrangements.” He motioned for her to take a seat, then shut the office door.

“Actually, I wanted to talk about Napoleon.”

“Napoleon?” Illya settled into the chair next to her. “What about him?”

“He’s been acting weird today.” Illya raised an eyebrow, curious. “For one thing, he’s suddenly keen on finding a date-- any date-- for both tomorrow and Christmas Day. He’s not having much luck, needless to say, but.... I thought he always spent the holidays with his aunt. She’s not taken a turn for the worse, has she?”

“Not to my knowledge. If anything, she’s been much more lucid than usual lately.”

“Still...” She frowned. “I mean, he even asked if he could tag along with us to my family’s place Christmas Day. That’s... just so not _him!_ ”

“Agreed. I’ll see what I can find out. In the meantime.... did you say he could come with us?”

“I advised him against it, because my entire family would try to break us up in favor of him.”

“But we’re not actually dating, you know.”

“Yes, I do. It’s just that Napoleon’s conservative-looking, which to my family says he’s full of money and bourgois ambitions, and therefore right up their alley.”

“Whereas I’m...?”

“A hippie. Probably.”

Kuryakin gave her an incredulous look. “A hippie? Really?”

“Any male who doesn’t wear their hair short-back-and-sides is a hippie.”

“Your family doesn’t get out much, do they?”

“Far too much television, yes. They’re especially fond of _Dragnet ‘67_.” April stood, brushing wrinkles out of her skirt. “I’ll let you get to things, then, Illya.”

“I’ll pick you up at 9 a.m. Christmas Day, yes?”

“I’ll be ready.” She waggled her fingers at him. “Ta-ta.”

Once April left his office, Illya repositioned himself behind his desk. He quickly checked his in-box, to make sure he hadn’t received anything pressing while he whiled the day away in the labs, and found a terse, unsigned note from his partner naming a restaurant and a time. Glancing at his watch, he realised he would have to move to get there at the appointed hour.

*******  
Napoleon had already ordered drinks for them both, and sat with his back to the wall, eying the door even as he contemplated the menu. Illya chose the seat to Napoleon’s left, so he could still keep an eye on doors as well. “Hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“No, not at all.” They chatted about nothing in particular until after they had ordered their meals. Once the waitress departed, Napoleon sighed. “Auntie Crank’s being beyond difficult.”

“So I gathered. You’ve been your own lonely hearts’ club today.”

“Word travels fast.”

Illya nodded. “Sometimes I think it would be more beneficial to put the secretarial staff on the front lines-- we might get information faster. Even if it _were_ laced between all the gossip.”

“I know what you mean. Still, odd that you heard.”

“I have my source.”

“Did your source also tell you I struck out?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

Solo steepled his fingers in front of his face, elbows resting on the table and chin resting on thumbs. “I can’t believe it. Every single woman in the secretarial pool had plans for the next two days, plans that didn’t allow for a tag-along, no matter how ‘dishy,’ ‘charming,’ or ‘suave and debonair.’ “

“Did you throw yourself on the mercy on some of the married Section III and IV types?”

“Apparently I have a reputation. A reputation that makes them want to protect their wives, sisters, and daughters from me.” Napoleon sighed again; he looked so sad and dejected that Illya pursed his lips in sympathy. Solo noted the change in his partner’s demeanor and immediately sat up straight, seemingly suddenly blase about it all. “A playboy’s work proceeds him, apparently.”

“What exactly did your aunt decree about Christmas?”

“That it wasn’t happening. Since she would mostly likely not remember it, there was no reason to actually celebrate it. She’s part of the past, so I need to go make my future.”

“Sounds a little harsh.”

“Practical, really. She doesn’t have many more years in her-- certainly not mentally. Besides, it’s typical for dementia patients to get angry and depressed and pessimistic when they’re lucid.”

“So you’re comfortable with it?”

“I’ve made my peace with it. Since I can’t get a celebration gig, I’m going to pull an extra shift tomorrow, and then take in a film or two on Christmas Day. Both _Bedazzled_ and _The President’s Analyst_ look interesting. And perhaps I’ll bring some Chinese home with me, in memory of Aunt Amy.”

“Why not just force Christmas on her?”

“What? Just barge in with dinner and presents and tree?”

“She doesn’t have a tree? I thought it was the law in this country.....”

Solo made a face. “Ha ha, very funny, it is to laugh, my friend. And as far as barging in-- not the thing to do. If she’s lucid, she’ll be angry, and if she’s not, she’ll be upset she forgot about it. Either way-- ‘bad scene,’ as the youngsters put it.”

Kuryakin gave him a pointed glare. “And she would remember it for how long?”

“That’s not the point. The point is that she wants me to move on, so move on I will.”

“And, given the choice, what would you prefer?”

“I’d rather spend the time with her, while she’s still able to enjoy it, at least part of the time. Not my decision, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s the family matriarch. Surely I don’t have to explain what that means?”

“Judging by your attitude, it means you cater to the whims of a mentally-deficient elderly lady to the detriment of your own needs.”

“Nicely put.”

“But accurate. Surely--” The waitress approached with their salads; Kuryakin paused while she delivered the food.

Once she had returned out of earshot, Solo immediately offered up for discussion round after round of interesting but neutral topics that kept the conversation far away from the holidays throughout the rest of the meal. It wasn’t until they stood, shouldering into their overcoats, that Solo made any further comment on the upcoming holiday. “Coming in tomorrow? I know you usually do....”

“Um... haven’t decided yet. Have some errands to do.”

“Ah, yes, gotta play the part of April’s beau properly.”

“Even though apparently I will be considered a hippie.”

Napoleon shrugged. “Eh, at least you look closer to April’s age with the hair. See you soon, my friend.” He quickly patted his partner on the back before disappearing into the night.

Illya contemplated what exactly was going on in Napoleon’s mind all the way back to Brooklyn Heights. Oh, his partner wanted to have Christmas with his aunt really badly. Napoleon couldn’t completely hide the undercurrent of disappointment and sadness-- at least not from Illya, who knew him as well as he knew himself. Napoleon put on a good act, but Illya wasn’t going to fall for it, not even in friendship. If Napoleon wouldn’t bring Christmas to Aunt Amy, Illya would.

The moment he entered his apartment, he beelined for the telephone. He didn’t want anyone from Headquarters listening in on his conversation. He paused long enough to recall the number he wanted, then dialled. “Good evening, Miss Dancer.... Yes, I know, but it’s a personal matter.... Where would one go to obtain a Christmas tree?”

***************

Mrs. Martinez brought her charge a tray laden with a delicately-buttered English muffin, one piece of bacon, half an apple (Granny Smith, sliced), a small pot of Irish Breakfast tea, a Spode teacup and matching saucer (both of which matched the teapot), and the day’s _New York Times._ Amy sat at the dining table, already dressed for the day in a navy and gold sheath and pearls. As Mrs. Martinez placed her breakfast in front of her, Amy looked up at her caretaker. “Do you think I was too harsh on the boy last night, Isobel?”

“I have no idea what you said to him, Miss Amy.” Mrs. Martinez unfurled the napkin and started tucking it under Amy’s chin. Amy batted the hand away, yanked the napkin out away, and placed it on her lap. “I only know that he didn’t seem quite as happy leaving as he was arriving.” Mrs. Martinez retreated into the kitchen.

Amy poured herself some tea and took a dainty sip. She then unfolded the newspaper and began reading the headlines, nibbling on her repast as she worked to make sense a few of the longer words. She knew her vocabulary had regressed; she nevertheless pushed herself through the paper on lucid days in the hopes of staving off the disappearance completely. Some days, when her grasp on language seemed particularly tenuous, she would attempt to work the crossword puzzle. Today, though, only a few words gave her a spot of trouble, so she plowed through the front section with glee.

She didn’t hear the knock on the door, or Mrs. Martinez answering it. She had no idea anyone had arrived for several minutes. Only after hearing someone clear his throat behind her did she come out of her reading-induced reverie. She turned around, recognizing yet not quite recognizing the slight, blond man in a black turtleneck and grey suit standing between dining room and living room. “Oh, hello, there!” she greeted. “I know you, don’t I?” She peered harder at him, took off her glasses and polished the lenses in her napkin, put on her glasses again, and, after studying him another few moments, added, “Well, you’ll have to give me a hint, young man, short term memory’s the first to go, you know!”

“I work with Napoleon, ma’am.”

She nodded, letting the information bounce around in her head. “Oh, I have it, you’re... Ian, right? And you and Nappy are inseparable at work, yes?”

She looked so pleased at having remembered something that Illya couldn’t bring himself to correct her. “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

“None of this ‘ma’am’ nonsense, young man!”

“Sorry, Aunt Amy.”

Amy smiled her forgiveness. “Sit?” she asked, waving at a dining room chair.

“Actually, Aunt Amy, I have a surprise for you in the living room, if you’d care to take a look.”

“And leave my tea?”

“I’ll bring your tea, if you’ll bring yourself.”

“A very good arrangement, Ian.” She pushed back from the table, reached for her cane, and hobbled into the living room. A small, silver tinsel tree graced a side table that had been moved near the windows for a better view (and to be closer to an electric socket). Lights twinkled all over the tree, reflecting off the tinsel and shooting little sparkles of light all over the living room. “Oh, delightful!” Amy exclaimed, dropping her cane and clapping her hands together in joy. “It’s beautiful-- and fits in so well with the rest of the modern monstrosity scheme!”

“I thought you might approve, Auntie.” Illya placed the tea service on the other side table and picked up Amy’s cane. He offered an arm to her; she grasped it and used him to steady her walk the rest of the way to her favorite barcalounger. Settling down in the comfy yet slick leather chair, she clapped her hands again, her smile widening. “Oh, splendid!” She glowered at Illya suddenly as he sat down catty-corner from her on the sofa. “But I told Napoleon we weren’t going to celebrate Christmas this year.”

“Yes, I know. And he’s obeying you.” A ghost of a grin played about his mouth. “But I’m not.”

“You naughty boy!”

“Not really.” Mrs. Martinez popped into the room with another teacup and a plate of mini-croissants; Illya poured himself some tea, refreshed Amy’s cup, and passed the pot back to the caregiver for a refill. “Let me tell you a story.”

“A story?” Amy raised an eyebrow, curious. “What sort of one?”

“A Christmas one.”

“And what does it involve?”

“A tree, an old lady, and a young man.”

“Please do not make it an alle-- an alleg-- a, oh, _you_ know, that thing where a story is told with fictional things standing in for real-life things.”

“Oh, no, not an allegory. When I was a young boy, my grandmother refused to allow a yolka one year.”

“Yolka?”

“What we called a Christmas Tree, although we actually put it up for New Year’s. Anyway, she was old, and constantly ill, and spent all of her time buried under blankets and pillows in her tiny room off the kitchen. When she heard my mother and I talk about the yolka, she became upset and forbade us from getting one.”

“Was she losing her mind, like I am?”

“No, just losing her life.”

“Same thing, really.” She reached for a croissant.

“No, not really. You’ll still be alive after your mind has gone. At least for awhile.”

“Doesn’t make things any easier.”

“Can I get back to my story?”

“Of course.”

Illya nodded once in thanks. “My grandmother and mother argued for some time over the matter. Finally it got to the point where they stopped speaking to each other. So I decided to intervene. I was very young at the time, not more than 5 or 6, and was convinced that no yolka meant no D’yed Moroz and that meant no presents.”

“D’yed Moroz?”

“Father Frost.”

“I didn’t realize you were European, Ian.”

He shrugged the comment off. “I wanted presents, so I went into my grandmother’s room and climbed up on her bed, and asked her point blank what she had against celebrating the new year.” He paused then, hiding behind his teacup as he considered how best to continue the tale. “She patted my head and said, ‘I am alive in the old year. In the new year... not so much.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say to a young boy.”

“She was just being pragmatic. Like you were with Napoleon.”

“Nappy’s a grown man, and--”

“So I asked my grandmother why we couldn’t pretend it was the previous new year coming. She pointed out that time didn’t work like that, and that it was better not to celebrate new year’s at all, since it was probably going to be her last one and she wanted to leave us all with happy memories of new years past.”

“I understand her point of view.”

Mrs. Martinez came in with more tea, refreshed both cups, and retreated again, leaving the pot behind.

“If this is going to be my last new year’s with you, I want to have fun with you. I want you to tell me stories and share treats with me and tell mother where to hang the ribbons and.... and.... and at that point, I started crying, as young children are wont to do when upset.”

“And your tears changed her mind and you got presents and have happy memories of it all.”

Kuryakin gave her a slightly embarrassed grin. “Something like that.”

“A nice enough tale, Ian,” Amy acknowledged, “But I certainly hope Nappy won’t be barging in here in tears....”

“As you said, he’s a grown man. He’s resigned to letting you have your way, even if it makes him unhappy.”

Amy leaned forward. “Is he really unhappy?”

“Yes.”

“Even with all his potential dates?”

“He went into work today, and is going to take in several films tomorrow. Alone.”

“That silly, silly boy.”

“Everyone was already busy and couldn’t include him.”

“Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Because your happiness is more important than his to him.”

“Bah!” Amy put down her teacup and struggled to stand. “I’m going to call him up and give him a piece of-- oh dear.” Not even halfway out of her chair, she sank back down, deflated. “How can I give him a proper Christmas Eve dinner? It’s already 10 a.m., and even if I sent Isobel out to the store now, it would still have to be cooked, and oh, it wouldn’t be fair to her, I promised she could leave early today because of the holiday and---bother. Stupid fading mind, always making a mess of things.”

“Don’t worry about dinner, Auntie, I already have that sorted.” Someone pounded on the apartment door; it sounded more like the door being kicked than being knocked on. Mrs. Martinez emerged from the kitchen; Illya bounded up off the sofa and met her at the door.

April Dancer, arms full of grocery bags, wobbled inside. Kuryakin grabbed two of the bags from her and brought them into the kitchen, placing them on the counter before helping April with the third. “Thank you,” he greeted.

“Thank you, too,” she said.

“Just what is going on?” Mrs. Martinez asked.

“We’re going to produce a Christmas feast,” April explained.

Mrs. Martinez shook her head. “Miss Amy said no Christmas dinner, so you had better not. I know you mean well, but--”

“I think you’ll find she’s changed her mind.”

The caregiver looked dubious, but ducked out of the kitchen to confer with her employer. April and Illya began unpacking the bags. “You’ll have to go by Rolf’s about 1 to pick up dessert, but other than that, we’re all set,” Dancer said finally.

Kuryakin looked suspiciously at the ham. “That’s not a goose.”

“Amazing powers of observation, Mr. Kuryakin. They were out of goose; I figured ham would be better than turkey or beef. Beef’s more for Christmas Day, anyway.”

“Is that what we’re having tomorrow?”

“Probably. I’m not exactly sure of the menu-- all I know that, as the prodigal daughter, I don’t have to make any of it. Unlike today.”

“I _could_ manage on my own. Aren’t any souffles involved... are there?”

Mrs. Martinez returned to the kitchen. “All right, you have me until noon. How can I help? And you, sir-- out! Miss Amy wants to chat with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Illya slunk out of the kitchen, rejoining Napoleon’s aunt by the windows.  
He expected a tongue-lashing; instead, Amy merely requested more stories of his “European Upbringing.” He told her several tales, not specifically saying where in Europe he had grown up. Mrs. Martinez departed after making lunch for everyone; Illya went on the bakery errand; Aunt Amy retreated into her bedroom for her afternoon nap.

Around three, as she took a break from tending the potatoes, April commented, “You still haven’t solved the other half of the equation, you know.”

“Oh, I have definitely solved the other half. Although... Napoleon will probably be quite cross with me.” He glanced at the meal simmering away. “Perhaps now would be a good time for you to slip out and go change?”

April handed him a set of keys. “My car is around the corner, a block down. Bag’s in the trunk. Least you could do is get my things.”

“Actually, the least I could do is _not_ get your things... but I will, anyway.”

“Always the gentleman.” April waved him out of the kitchen.

****************

Napoleon diagnosed himself with extreme boredom about 3 o’clock that afternoon. He hadn’t even shown up at Headquarters until 10 a.m., figuring that since he wasn’t actually scheduled he didn’t actually have to show up on time. He read through status reports, did the rounds of the Communications Room (minimal staff), the secretarial pool (minimal staff), and the agents’ lounge (fairly empty, except for Jerkowski, who _always_ seemed to be in the lounge, no matter day or time). He went for an early lunch at the deli down the street, then returned and read through all the minutes of the September summit that could have gone so wrong had he and Illya not stopped Harry Beldon in time. That didn’t take all that long, since his version of the minutes had large chunks of notes redacted. (So much for being Number 1, Section II!) He was left with debating whether he should see if there were any quickie local courier assignments available or whether he should call it a day, go home, and spend the evening rereading _The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich._

The phone saved him from having to finalize his decision. He answered with a touch more glee than usual. “Solo here.”

“Oh, Mr. Solo, this is Mrs. Martinez. You had best get over to your aunt’s.”

Solo immediately sat up straighter, ready for action. “Why? What’s wrong? Has she taken ill?”

“Just get over there! As soon as you can!” Mrs. Martinez hung up.

Napoleon rubbed his chin a moment. “Over there” and not “over here”? That was weird. Still, a summons was a summons, and considering how rushed the caregiver sounded, he had better get a move on. He grabbed his outerwear and hightailed it out of Headquarters.

***********

Amy made her way back to her barcalounger and sat down gracefully. That walk from the bedroom became longer as the day progressed. Probably a good thing she wasn’t as mobile as she used to be. Last thing she (or Nappy) needed was for her to go wandering around Manhattan during one of her episodes.

The tree caught her eye. Was it Christmas Eve already? How nice for Nappy to have arranged for it. If that’s what he did. Her face scrunched up in thought. She _thought_ the tree had something to do with her nephew, but what exactly she couldn’t remember.

“Some wine, Auntie?” Illya asked, bringing a tray with a bottle and four glasses into the living room. April followed behind him with cheese and crackers.

“Oh, a glass of burgundy right about now would be splendid, Ian.”

Illya poured for them all, then offered the cheese and crackers to both ladies separately. Amy thought she might have seen the redhead before, but she thought that about so many people these days it didn’t matter.

April, feeling a bit under the microscope, asked, “Do you remember me, Aunt Amy?”

“Well, not really. No, wait! You’ve been here before with Ian.”

“Once, yes.”

“And you’re.... Annie! Ian’s girlfriend, if my memory sieve is holding enough water.”

April opened her mouth to correct Amy; Illya shook his head once. “That’s right,” April agreed.

Amy beamed. “Oh, it’s so good to have you both here! Where’s Nappy?”

“He should be along shortly,” Illya assured.

“Always running late, that boy. Even as a child. Drove Thaddeus mad, it did, him coming home all hours and all colors.”

“All colors?” April questioned.

“Oh, not the right word, probably.” She helped herself to another cracker. “Why don’t you two lovebirds tell me how you met.”

“Well, um...” Illya began.

April grabbed his arm, giving it a squeeze as she cozied up to him. “Oh, darling, you always make a hash of the story. Let me tell it.” She gave him a winsome smile. “We met at work, you see....”

**********  
The cab ride over took far too much time, even though traffic was light and the cabbie hit nothing but green lights. Solo gave a curt nod to the doorman on duty and beelined for the elevator. He wasn’t going to stand on ceremony; he dug out his keys and had the one to his aunt’s apartment ready to go by the time the elevator dropped him off on the penthouse floor. He unlocked the door and strode in, ready to assess the situation and act at a second’s notice.

He stopped in his tracks on his third step in. A gaudy tinsley Christmas tree that perfectly matched the too-modern living room decor graced a corner of the fabulous view. His aunt and his partner sat by the windows, Illya pouring Amy a little more wine. April Dancer, meanwhile, clung to Illya in a rather unprofessional way, saying, “So my family thinks there’s going to be a big announcement tomorrow.”

“Oh, you never know, love, there just might be,” Illya countered, his tone only 4% annoyed.

Dinner smells wafted in from the kitchen, making Solo’s mouth water. “Ah... Merry Christmas?” he ventured, stepping further into the room.

“Ah, Nappy, there you are, late again as always. Ian, get him a glass of something.”

“Yes, Aunt Amy.” Kuryakin dutifully rose and headed for the kitchen.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t drop anything,” Solo added, following his partner. “Just what’s going on here?” he demanded in a harsh whisper once in the other room.

“Someone had to be D’yed Moroz, Napoleon. Or, if you prefer, Santa Claus.”

“But... why?”

“Like that song goes, you needed a little Christmas. And since you’re both clearly related to each other, someone had to break the detente.”

“You went to all this effort--”

“--for you, yes. Because you’re my friend, and I wanted you to be happy.”

“And conning April into it---”

Illya shrugged. “She did it willingly. She likes your aunt.”

“And that story she was telling just now, as I came in....?”

“Practicing the cover story for tomorrow, I assume.”

“Ah.” Solo fell silent, his eyes focused on his shoes.

He remained quiet for so long that Illya finally prompted, “You’re not mad, are you?”

Solo looked up then, and Kuryakin noted a tear rolling down his partner’s face. Before he could apologize, though, Solo grabbed him in a brief, tight hug. “Thank you, my friend,” he whispered before breaking off the hug. He grabbed a teatowel, dampened it, wiped his face quickly, and put on his best charming expression. “Let’s not keep the ladies waiting, Illya.” With that, he sauntered out of the kitchen.

A small, pleased grin flitted across Illya’s features as he followed his partner out of the room.


End file.
